Adrian exhales like a knife. “You’re being reckless, Roman. This—” he taps the table, “—this is exactly how you got baited to Texas. You ran in, and you nearly walked into an ambush. We can’t afford another mistake.”
“You think I don’t know that?” My fingers curl around the edge of the table until my knuckles ache. “I learned from Texas. We changed the plan. We’re not running blind. We’re not walking into another decoy.”
Lev studies me, slow and unreadable. “You’re letting your heart rule your head,” he says quietly. “You’re close to her. I get it. But close clouds judgment. If we push now without full intel, we give Chang what he wants—a public war. We draw eyes, law, buyers, enemies. We need precision, not fury.”
Niko snorts. “Since when did Roman need cold reason? He usually prefers the burn-it-down option.” He tries to defuse, but it comes out brittle.
“Maybe I do prefer burn-it-down,” I admit. “Maybe I’ve found a new hobby: torching men who hurt what’s mine.” The words are sharper than I intended. I know how it sounds. I don’t care.
Adrian slams a fist on the table. “That’s not the point. The point is collateral. You take a reckless swing, and people die—civilians, buyers, guards, maybe even Elara if Chang forces the situation. We need to control the narrative and the theater.”
I pace, each step a measured beat. “We control nothing if we wait for him to act. Sitting on our hands because you fear noise is how men lose what matters.”
Lev leans forward, palms flat. “Roman, breathe. We can’t be predictable. Dimitri tracking the buyers is good. Let him finish. Luka double-checks the communications. We’ll have two entry points, an extraction route, a false egress, medical evac—everything. You get one swing, make it count.”
Before I can answer, the door bangs open and Dimitri steps in with that ridiculous confident smirk, and his coat thrown over one arm. He doesn’t bother with ceremony.
“I’ve pinned it,” he says, dropping onto a chair and swinging his legs onto the table. “Midnight. Auction house on the old pier district. David Chang’s men running security, foreign buyers in private suites. I’m certain it’s him.”
Adrian stiffens. “You sure? Because if this is another bait—”
“It’s not,” Dimitri snaps, eyes cold now. “I traced the money flow from a broker who’s tied to one of Chang’s offshore shells. I double-checked feeds. It’s clean.”
Niko, Lev, and Adrian trade quick, guarded looks—the kind that counts the cost. Then Lev nods once, slowly. “If Dimitri’s sure, we go.”
“Count me in,” Niko says.
Adrian exhales, then says, “We go together. No lone heroics.”
I let the agreement settle through the room. Not everyone approves, but everyone stands. That’s enough.
“Good,” I say, voice low and final. “Luka, lock down comms and prep two assault teams. Dimitri, you and I take the lead on entry. Lev, you and Niko run perimeter containment.Adrian, you coordinate extraction and med evac. We move at twenty-three forty. No chatter. No mistakes.”
We move like a well-oiled machine, like men who’ve been waiting for a green light. My blood thrums under my skin—equal parts hunger and cold focus. Midnight is hours away, but already the plan is a blade being whetted. I taste the metal of it and don’t bother to look away.
Almost an hour later, I leave the room while the others drink and head to our suite. It’s the last place I saw Elara, and I want to be here before I go on this hunt. I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at the broken window I’ve refused to fix. The jagged glass throws fragments of streetlight across the floor like teeth. I imagine her there—small, stubborn, furious—and my stomach folds in on itself.
How did she feel the moment they hauled her through that glass? Did she try to scream my name? Did the world blur and tilt the way mine did after Luka told me she was gone? I promised her safety with my life, and a dozen men in suits bled that promise dry. Promises mean nothing if you can’t keep them.
The door opens, and Luka walks in. He fills the room with the smell of smoke and cigarette ash. He always smokes heavily when he’s exhausted or stressed. These past few hours have been hell for everyone. He drops a paper bag on the desk—sandwiches, I guess, badly wrapped—and gives me that look he reserves for when I’m spiraling.
“You need to eat,” he says.
“I’m not hungry,” I answer, and the words come out flat.
He sighs, the sound long and tired. “Roman—”
“Leave it, Luka.”
“What happens if we’re too late?” he asks instead, softer now, because he knows the way my head runs and he’s trying to catch me before I jump.
I turn to him, and there’s no theatrics, no swagger. Just a cold, hard line down the center of my face. My voice drops; it’s a promise and a threat braided together. “Then I burn the city and everyone in it.”
Luka’s jaw tightens. For a second, I watch the old friend—the man who’s bled with me, who’s seen me break and stitch myself back together—fight the reflex to argue. He doesn’t. He only nods once, slow, like acceptance or fear or both.
“Midnight is still a few hours away,” he says. “You need to eat. You won’t be any use to her if you pass out halfway through a breach.”
I start to argue, to tell him I don’t need food, that anger fuels me, but his hand lands on my forearm, and the world narrows to the weight of it. He doesn’t squeeze; he just holds, steady. “Think about Elara,” he says. “Not the war. Her.”
